I don’t know who is in charge of the international dog propaganda machine but whoever it is deserves a raise.

Dogs have never been more popular and they’ve never deserved it less. There was a time dogs worked on farms, caught burglars and brought medicine across the Alps to children with polio. No more.

Today dogs lounge around the living room eating meals prepared by chefs at the Science Diet Pet Nutritional Center (probably in Paris) and waiting around for you to escort them on a walk. Today’s dog thinks she ought to be chauffeured in an SUV decorated with satin pillows and steak-scented sheets.

You cannot turn on a TV set without being assaulted with cute dogs performing darling skits in order to persuade you to buy a ticket to Maui, a different shampoo, or another SUV, this one with a wading pool and small flocks of chickens.

At this point there are more dogs in advertising than there are ads. Dogs are hired to sell lawnmowers, wedding rings, pizzas and vacations. I expect dogs to appear in pharmaceutical ads soon: A black lab in a white lab coat carrying a clipboard and warning of potential side effects that include bleeding eyeballs.

Somehow the public relations team that promotes dogs has made people think dogs are the very best our planet can hope for. I’d bet dogs come out higher in national polls than firefighters, baseball players and wounded vets. Dogs are more popular right now than Tom Brady or Tom Hanks. Dogs are more popular than Meryl Streep.

None of this bothers me, I lied. Dogs are just so stinking great. Wish I had a dozen of ‘em.

Let me tell you folks, I’ve got a dog and if I took some medication that made my eyeballs bleed my dog would lick my face and laugh, and then she’d go fetch my prescription bottle and want me to take three more.

Dogs are self-centered, indifferent, and don’t smell all that great. The only thing my dog is loyal to is her empty food bowl, and the only reason she thinks I exist is to fill it twice a day. Nine times a day, she’d prefer.

I keep saying “my” dog but this is really all my wife’s doing. Trophy is the one who moped around the house until we could get another dog and Trophy is the one who picked this very dog, out of all the lousy dogs in all the lousy litters, to join our happy household.

And it actually was a happy household, sort of, although we neglected to tell the dog about Kittiboy ahead of time and that was a mistake. Kittiboy definitely detracted from the “happy household” myth.

Anyhoo, Kittiboy’s dead now and we can’t keep blaming his funky personality for the way the dog acts. Because the dog acts like she’d rather be in some other house with some other people. She’s remote, aloof, and if it wasn’t for that fill-the-dog-bowl-twice-a-day thing she’d have moved into the garage a long time ago.

She’d prefer being anywhere, including the laundry room, rather than share a piece of household furniture with either of us. It used to be that she slept nights in our upstairs bedroom, although she wouldn’t join us on the bed, even briefly, unless we first tossed a nice meaty ham hock onto the bedspread.

Now she won’t even sleep in the same room. Instead she stays on a futon out in the family room except for when she spends the night downstairs. Or maybe she goes out the dog door and wanders the neighborhood until dawn; we don’t know.

It occurred to us a few days ago that our dog is really more like a roommate than a family member. She’s independent, prefers being by herself, and is oblivious to affectionate overtures unless they’re accompanied by snacks.

But here’s the thing: When out in public she acts like the world’s friendliest, cheeriest, most wonderful dog. It’s all a phony act but everyone’s fooled. She tours the neighborhood alongside me as happy as a clown and faithful as an archbishop. She’s attentive, obedient and well-mannered.

She’s always thrilled to go prancing around Ukiah. She’s eager to meet our friends and strives to make a good impression. She loves everybody from homeless gents to county supervisors, and she’s made such a positive impression on School Street shopkeepers over the years that they throw treats at her when she comes through the door.

All of which just annoys me. She reminds me of a girlfriend I used to have, but not for long.

And that’s the thing about dogs, because you’re not allowed to ever get rid of one no matter how big a loser he or she is. To return a lunging, barking beast to the animal shelter is worse than a divorce, at least to some people.

Not that we’re thinking of getting rid of her. She’s fine, really. Definitely good. Average, maybe better. No way would I sell the dog to my neighbor Fred for ten bucks.

But I might trade her even-up for Kittiboy.

Y’see, the thing is Tom Hine already has a pet named Tommy Wayne Kramer who is well-loved and welcome in every part of the community. Also, he’s housebroken and can do tricks.